(Split Story) The Final Freedom
by taerkitty
Summary: Trapped in a preternatural killer's lair, Claes has to rely on newly-found allies to survive. Disclaimer: AU and strong focus on OC.
1. Prisoner

**_The Final Freedom_ Chapter 1: Prisoner**

You wake up. The air is damp, the cement on which you lay is cold. Your throat aches and your head throbs. The room is shrouded in inky darkness.

As you grope about, you feel the rough brick and mortar of one wall. You follow it, palm over palm, moving to the left, trying to find a door, a window, anything with which to orient yourself.

Your hands find the corner, and your foot overturns a pail. You kneel and grope for it. It's metal, empty, and light. You draw it near in hopes of learning something in spite of being blind.

The faint ammonia scent first makes you think of cleaning supplies, but a cloying earthiness, equally muted, causes you to retch.

The pail once contained waste. Human waste.

Your stomach roiling, you place the pail back in the corner, in the black. You continue your exploration, this time shuffling your bare feet lightly above the rough floor, testing your steps as well as your walls.

Another corner. The two walls, two corners. In it, you step on some cloth. Carefully, hesitantly, you lift it. It's a woolen blanket. There's a mustiness to it, and the faint dank of perspiration, but nothing else foul or rancid.

It's a woolen blanket, and it's warm. You pat yourself down, and find yourself dressed in a thin, sleeveless dress. As you do, the chill about you hammers your senses, and the fear and disorientation yield to it.

You are cold.

The blanket over your bare shoulders itches. At first it is no warmer than the floor, the walls. As you continue your snail's-pace search, it does grant you some warmth.

You expect this wall, this third wall, to lead to a corner, to lead to yet one more wall, but it doesn't.

The wall ends when you touch vertical pipes of metal. They're spaced a hand's span width apart. The bars are each slightly thicker than your thumb.

You grab one and pull. They do not bend. They do not yield.

Crouching down, you find them set into the concrete.

Reaching up, you find them to extend past your reach.

Touching each as you brush them, you find a rectangular bar, a pinky's-width gap, and its twin. You run your fingers against them as you crouch, and find the gap bridged on the far side by a cylinder, metal and …

It's a hinge. It's a hinge, those are bars, and you're in a cell.

"Help! Somebody! Help me! _Please!_" The words escape before you realize. Your thoughts are overwhelmed with the possible consequences of your cry. Animals, knives, all manner of weapons and devices of torment.

Your stomach is empty. You find that in a most painful way, as your body folds upon itself and cramped heaving seizes you.

Nothing is expelled.

You listen. In the distance, you hear a scrabbling. It's faint. You dismiss the doubt it is an illusion, a manifestation of your panic and blind hope. You listen to it, and your heart sinks when you only hear silence.

There it is!

You hear it again, slightly louder. It's rhythmic, it's slow, and it's hesitant. Most importantly, it's _approaching_.

In your head, two fears wage war each against the other. To call out and risk attracting someone of ill intent, or to call out in hopes of rescue.

"Is somebody there?! Help me! I'm trapped! Can you hear me?" The decision is made.

You listen. Nothing. In the blackness, your eyes see a possible blot of light. It could be from straining to see, it could be from fear. But, it could be real.

"Hello? Do you hear me?" _Please?_ Your voice loses volume as your heart loses hope.

There it is, the scratching, the rustling. Whomever is making those foot falls, they're coming closer.

"I'm over here! I'm trapped. Help!" Emboldened by the noise, you cry out words, but your heart hears them instead as a prayer.

The splash of light appears again, and remains in sight. It bounces jaggedly in time with the footfalls. _It's someone with a flashlight!_

"Please! Help me!"

The light grows in intensity against perpendicular wall. It is so bright, it almost blinds you. In the dust you can see the cone of dust. As it increases in brightness, it decreases in size.

It is but the width of a dinner plate when you hear the clear footsteps of someone entering the cross-hallway.

"I'm over here! I'm over-" The light sweeps down the wall towards your cage, then dazzles you, interrupting your chant. You throw up your right arm across your eyes, and blots of orange and green fill your vision.

"What are you doing in there?" The speaker is female, and young. Her voice is an alto, yet devoid of maturity's huskiness.

"I… I don't know. I woke up, and … I don't know! Please let me out!" No sooner did the words leave than you realize their folly. She's a girl, just a girl like you. What can she do?

Through the roaring panic and the deafening headache, you try to determine where did that thought come from? _I'm just a girl. How did I know that?_

"I'll see what I can do." Her voice is calm, matter-of-fact. The light lowers as she approaches.

"I … I don't know where the keys are. I don't know what you can…" You can't bring yourself to finish the sentence.

"Back up." Hers is a voice of command, of responsibility and authority beyond what you can imagine possible for her age.

"What?"

"Back up. Back up and cover your ears. This might get loud."

You nod, then, realizing the futility of such an unseen motion, what with the light painting the lock to the cell door, you back away against the concrete wall.

A roar, no, three roars so close as to initially sound as one, they rip through your ears as you realize too late you didn't cover them as instructed.

Your vision is obscured by a sulfurous haze, and your hearing is equally impeded by a siren's whine.

Through the haze, you see the door swing free, away from your cell.

Through the cacophony, you hear that most welcome voice say, "Let's go. I'm Claes. What's your name?"

That's when you realize _you don't know._


	2. Paladin

**_The Final Freedom_**** Chapter 2: Paladin**

"What _do_ you know then?" The sudden arch in her voice feels like a slap, so cool was her demeanor until now.

You pause and inhale deeply. You squeeze your eyes so hard that flashes of false color wink in and out. Your head still throbs, but beyond the pain, above the fear, you search for something, anything.

"I don't - Ah!" A face bursts through the mental fog. The mouth and nose are covered by a stained surgical mask, and a blinding light at the center of the forehead denies you any further description.

"What? What?" Claes sweeps the hallway with the flashlight mounted on her pistol. Her motion is neither languid nor hurried.

"I … I think I remember something. I remember a…" You press your forefinger against your pounding temple. "A face. A mask, really."

"What kind of mask?"

You struggle for the words. The most direct name, the one in your thoughts but a heartbeat ago, it eludes you. "It's … it's that cloth kind. White, usually, but this one had brown stains on it. Uh, it covers the mouth, the mouth and nose. It's a rectangle, and it... and it…"

"Is it a medical mask? Like the kind they use at hospitals?"

"Yeah. That's it." You nod. You nod and note that your brown tresses are too limp, too flat to bounce like they normally do. Instead, they hang below your sundress' neckline in front, and they remain pasted to your bare back under the scratchy woolen blanket. "That's it," you whisper, some palpable yet unformed dread receding.

"It was stained, you say? Brown stains? Were they reddish-brown?"

"Uh-huh." Your stomach tightens, your shoulders hunch.

"Sounds like a surgeon's mask, then."

At those words images, sounds, sensations stampede over you. Screams, multiple voices- The high-pitched whine of a power- An array of lights, with petals of mirrors over- A burning in the crook of your elbow, and the sight of- The sight of another girl's wrists, the skin worn angry and red from struggling against- A burning from inside, searing, incinerating-

"-you stand? What happened?"

You open your eyes as the flood of hated memories fade. You're on the floor, curled on your side. Your knees are drawn to your chest and your hands are balled into rock-hard fists in front of your face. Out of shame, you avoid Claes' outstretched hand. Her composure, her confidence, they are so strong, so brilliant that they make you feel as if you would diminish her with your touch.

"I'm… I'm okay. I remembered a lot of things when you said… when you said…" You look at her, a sliver of your heart hoping she'll say those words again, and the vast remainder steeling itself for the memories they'll bring.

She looks at you, and her eyes warm from their focused scowl. A candle's flame of humanity warms you from her gaze. "It's all right. You don't have to say it, and I won't say it either. Just tell me what you saw."

You deflate, the stress escaping your body with a prolonged exhalation. "It's more than just what I saw, there was also stuff I heard, and stuff I…"

Ξ§§§Ξ

As you both venture further into the pitch-black hallway, Claes listens to you as you attempt to describe each shattered shard of memory. She is silent. You imagine she nods, she gives you encouraging glances, but she is silent. She no longer tries to fill in your stammering sentences.

You realize your gratitude to her is growing, both for her kindness, and her patience in this matter. It was already substantial given her confidence and competence.

And you realize you've tried to describe the same scene three times, and failed again at the critical point. "Uh, that's all I can remember for now. I'll uh, I'll tell you if anything else comes back to me."

She nods. By the light of the flashlight splashing on the nearby wall, you see she has her eyes fixed far ahead, her mouth in a tight line. Her hair is tucked under a black hat, and the light hints at utilitarian pants tucked into boots and a lined jacket. You can't make out the colour, but the shapes and lines alone lead you to think she is not wearing anything bright or flowery.

As you continue to step forward, you look at yourself. Bare feet, a white sundress with a flower over the belly, and a blanket. The contrast could not be greater.

"Uh, Claes? Do you know how to get out of here?"

The flashlight swings back toward you, blinding you. You raise your arm to shield your eyes, but instead of the blobs of false colour, you instead imagine seeing irritation on her face.

The light swings back the way you are heading. "No. I'm hoping that we'll see an exit stairway at some point."

You nod, feeling silly for asking the obvious question. "Stairway? Why a stairway?"

The light doesn't sweep back this time. Instead, it remains fixed down the dusty hallway. "I fell. That's how I ended up here. I was on a … I was trying to follow someone and fell down a trapdoor. I think we're two or three floors below street level."

"Oh."

"You don't remember how you got here, do you?"

You fight the pain, the fear, the confusion and dive into your memories, fragmented as they are. Nothing. "No, I'm sorry. I remember waking up in that cell." You shudder and wrap the blanket tighter around yourself. "Thank you for getting me out of there, Claes. You probably saved my life."

"Very likely."

You hear a tightness in her last sentence. You debate asking, and think better of it when her flashlight sweeps across a scene so horrifying the glimpse of it is seared into your vision. "Go back! Over there!"

Claes obliges, and directs her lamp at another cell. _Just like yours._ In one corner is a bucket. _Just like yours._ In the center of the room is the face-down desiccated corpse of a young girl, her dress still trying to show its original yellow hue in spite of the dirt and discoloration. Her hair is red, curly, and neck length. One hand is under her body, and the other is stretched at the bars. She looks like she was no more than eight.

You recoil and find yourself stepping back. Only the darkness and fear of being too far from Claes and her illumination keeps you from fleeing.

She maintains a steady hand, slowly studying the cell. Trying to be worthy of her effort, you swallow your revulsion and terror. You follow the slowly moving pool of light as it illuminates that girl's resting place.

The bricks and mortar are plain - dark red and off white. The bars are black, with orange growths where rust has started to invade. The cell is easily twice your height, and is roughly that span in width and depth as well. It lacks any furnishings, anything besides the bucket. There are no windows, no light fixtures.

In the cell, there is the bucket, and there is the body.

"That could have been me." The words exit as naturally as breathing.

"Very likely."

You blink, and go back on your recent decision. "What do you mean?"

"I've found at least a dozen of these cages. Five of them, now six, were occupied. You're the only one I found alive."


	3. Peltast

**_The Final Freedom_**** Chapter 3: Pelatast**

You do find a stairwell, and beside it, a set of elevator doors. The buttons are dark, and pushing them yields no response. Claes opens the stairwell door, but it only leads down. She descends one step.

"Wait," you say. "Didn't you say we were underground? Why... Why go..." You gesture at the dark maw. _Why won't the words come?_

"This floor is all cells. I've already found two other stairways, and they both go down."

At that word, your eyes refuse to close, to blink. A roaring fills your ears. Your breathing, so rapid, so deep, it makes thoughts cloud. You grasp the doorframe as your knees weaken.

"Are you coming?" Claes flicks her flashlight at you. Upward. She's on the landing, half a flight of stairs below you.

"Wait! Don't go that way! It's... bad. It's bad."

"All right. Suit yourself." The light swings away. You hear her footstep, but it's softer. Further. _She's walking away!_

You catch up as she opens the door to the next floor down.

"You fall behind like that again, and I won't wait for you. Got it?"

You nod.

"Got it?"

You force a croak past your parched throat. It evidently sounds enough like "Yes" to satisfy her.

The doorway leads to another hallway, but instead of extending left and right like the previous floor, this one leads straight forward from the stairwell, ending in a set of double doors, each with a round window at a normal adult's head height.

There are doors lining the hallway on both sides, but Claes walks directly for the double doors. Even standing on her toes, neither you nor Claes can see into the room through round windows.

You are trying to snare the elusive memories that these doors evoke. They are many, they are strong, and they are elusive.

She pushes one open.

In the same instant as she and you step into the room, you remember it when it was lit. Lit, and functioning.

The center of the room is commanded by a bed-sized platform balanced on a large spherical pivot. The platform is a stainless steel plate perforated with orderly rows of slots each the length and width of an index finger, about two fingers apart. Through some of the slots are threaded thick straps, their material dark and strong, their buckles shining with malevolence.

The straps are placed to ...

You look away. You try to force yourself to conquer this fear, but can only bear a single glance at it before your eyes squeeze shut. In your self-imposed isolation, you slowly flex your arms, quietly shift from one leg to the other, just to reassure yourself that you are not still strapped to that table.

The floodgates open. You look up, and see the multi-headed lamp. Currently it is just a shape as Claes' light sweeps the room, but you superimpose your own memory of it. It's bright, it's hot. Sometimes, a hand, a head, an implement casts a shadow across your eyes, but most of the time, you remember being blinded by it.

You remember fear, and you remember pain.

Claes continues her sweep, either unaware or ignoring your thoughts. Her light lands on a cabinet.

"That's where they keep the machines, the ones that hurt."

"Oh, so you are starting to remember?"

Instead of answering directly, you indicate where her flashlight now illuminates. "That's where they store the bottles of the bad medicine."

"Bad medicine?" Claes pulls the drawer open.

It's empty.

You close your eyes and nod. "They would inject us with it. After they put us on..." You point at the steel table. You know Claes isn't looking at you. You know she can't tell what you mean, but... _The right words are so hard to say!_

"And that's where they store the little knives. The ... the ones with the long handles." You blush. Claes must think you are weak.

"Razors? Or scalpels?"

"S... scalpel... scalpels." At last, one of the words you were avoiding comes out! It was a whisper, but it came out. You clear your throat and say it again. "They were scalpels. They used them... to put things in us."

"What kind of things?" She opens this drawer. "Hm... Looks like they packed everything."

"I don't know. I didn't want to look. It hurt." You scratch the back of your head, where your hair and neck are. "It hurt a lot. Most of the time, most of the time, I was crying."

"Did you know why? What were they trying to do? What did... Hello, what's this?"

The pool of light now shows a trio of cages on wheels. Each is the same size: about a meter-and-a-half on each side. All have hasps and padlocks securing the doors.

The middle one has some bars with sections missing. You both walk closer and study the ends. They were cut with a torch or welder.

"Well, someone wanted to get into there." Claes reaches out to touch one of the ends, a tap at first, then a steady grasp. She gives a grunt, then lets go.

You're not sure, but the end of the broken cage bar seems slightly bent.

"Do you remember what they kept in there? Why would someone want it bad enough to take a torch to-"

"Us. They kept us in there." You grasp your upper arms and shiver. "When it wasn't our turn. Our turn on the ... on the ... the table. We had to watch. And listen."

Claes' flashlight remains motionless on that one cage for a few long seconds. After that, she resumes the sweep of the room, slower. She asks no further questions.

You see their faces, hear their voices. Not the adults. They always wore those surgical masks. However, you remember the others. Their faces, streaked with tears. Their voices, hoarse from cries. They were just children. All girls, all young.

Just like you.

You remember one in particular, a darker-skinned girl. You were both in theses cages, listening to a machine whine, listening to another girl on the table scream for mercy. The girl in the next cage reached her hand through the bars. You reached out, and grasped her hand.

_Why can't I remember her name?_

You are so deep in thought, you almost walk into Claes. She stopped suddenly, and is staring at what the flashlight shows before you.

Two charred skeletons lie on the floor. What clothing and flesh were on these bodies have long since been burned away. One is adult-sized. The other is child-sized.

You-sized.

From the looks of the blackened skeleton, both are face-down, the child atop the adult.

Whatever burned them was intense, leaving a fine ash in the vague shape of their bodies and limbs on the tile floor.

"Not a lot left, is there? Do you have any idea what happened?"

You lack even the willpower to look again at the scene. "I... I don't know. There were a few grown-ups here. Maybe that's one of them." You sneak a peek at the remains. "And there were a lot of kids here, too. They were as old as us, I think. That could be..."

"Okay, no idea. Got it."

She starts to move around the disturbing sight, toward the nearby double door.

You follow closely.

The door leads to a second hallway. It ends at another door with a sign indicating it is another set of stairs.

No sooner have you taken two steps toward it that it starts to open.

Claes switches the flashlight off

In the darkness, you say, "What-"

"Quiet!" The reply is an angry hiss.

You comply.

The door opens, then shuts.

As soon as it clicks, the flashlight comes on.

In the light, you see a distortion of a man, his body bulging in asymmetric and unnatural ways under a stained white lab coat, torn pants and a button-down shirt that was once a light blue. His face is also twisted and malformed. His eyes are red orbs under a headband on which is fastened a round mirror.

_The Doctor!_ That was your name for him. He looked human in your version of the past.

At the sudden illumination, he growls and lumbers at you.

Again, you hear three blasts so rapid that you have to concentrate to enumerate them. You see three strobes go off in time with the gunfire. You see three holes appear in the center of The Doctor's shirt.

There is no other effect. There is no blood. There is no scream.

He is still nearing.

Claes fires again, and the forehead mirror shatters.

He takes another ponderous step forward.

"Now would be a good time to remember something," she yells, just before squeezing the trigger once more.


	4. Platonist

**_The Final Freedom_**** Chapter 4: Platonist**

From behind you, through the gunfire-induced tinnitus, a familiar voice calls, "Back here! It's safe!"

Claes hears it too. She fires one more salvo then turns and runs for the door back to the operating room.

You follow. As soon as you stumble past the door, the hallway bursts into flame.

The Doctor's growl mixes with the fire's roar.

"What," Claes says between pants, "What was that?"

As the door closes, it reveals a person behind it. Claes shines her light, illuminating another girl maybe a year or two older than you, and with a few centimeters added for her age. She too is wearing a light dress, pastel butterflies on white, all behind a random splashing of dirt and grime.

She looks familiar, so familiar. You search for a name, but only seem to find a number. Eighteen. Eighteen? She can't be eighteen. She looks no older than thirteen. _Eighteen. Is that her name?_

"Whoa. I'm on your side, Gun-girl. Could you shine it like over there?" A haphazard wave follows the words.

Claes mutters a tight, quiet apology and points back at the door you most recently used. The hallway is still ablaze, and the two circular windows are filled with dancing licks of orange and yellow.

"Sixteen! Great to see you! Are you okay?" She gives you a hug, then holds your shoulders, takes a step back and looks into your eyes. "Did they zap you in the head again? Do you remember me?"

You yield to that shadow of a memory. "Eighteen? You're Eighteen, right?"

"Yep. So you remember what happened?"

"No, do you?" You run a hand through your snarled and matted hair.

"A lot. Too much. Most of it about Doc Ugly out there. I was running-"

"Uh, excuse me?" Claes jogs the light pointing at the door. "About … Doc Ugly. That was … him?"

"That's The Doctor. Or was. He's let himself go lately." Eighteen's laughter fools no one, and she quickly lets it die off. "He's still trying to catch us, but to… I'm not sure what he wants. From the ones he catches, I mean."

"You mean, you don't know what he wants to do?" Claes is whipping her gaze back and forth from Eighteen and the door.

"I know what he does. I saw him do it to Fifteen."

You realize that number is a name, a face, a person. Or was. A shy blonde in a sundress comes to mind. Green eyes. She had green eyes as you recall from the few times she raised her downcast gaze. "What… what did he do?"

"He sucked the life out of her." Eighteen's right cheek twitches once after she speaks.

"Wait. You said you didn't know what he wants with you. Now, you just said he wants to kill you. Doesn't that mean you _do_ know what he wants with you?" Claes' words have less of her flat nonchalance.

"Not _why_ he's doing it. I don't know that, and I don't know _how_. He grabbed her, and she started… it was almost like she was shrinking. She was drying up, almost … deflating. Like a balloon. When he was done, she was just skin… skin stretched over bones."

"What? How did he…? I mean, that's not … Uh, you can't do that. Right?" Claes' voice was your anchor, your bulwark. To hear her self-assurance erode fills you with a cold fear.

"I don't know. I told you that already, didn't it? I don't know!" Eighteen's fists seem to glow from within, as if she is holding something red-hot. Her eyes are but two more furrows in her grimacing face.

You're not sure, but the inner corners of them seem to glisten. It's probably the light.

"Uh, Eighteen? Are you all right?"

"No! I'm not! I saw him kill my friends! I can do this." One arm whips outward, one fist flashes open, and a spout of fire reaches out to the operating table. "I can do this, and I couldn't save them. I couldn't save them, and I can hit him back."

The table is consumed with flames. They fill the room with light. You look at the other two.

Eighteen's right hand is extended, but no longer expressing flames. Her left hand is by her hip, still balled, and definitely glowing. Her mouth is in a snarl, and her eyes are sharp and hard.

Claes has both hands on her gun, but has it pointed at the ground between her feet. Her eyes are wide, her mouth gaping.

You blink, realizing that you are not surprised. That lack of reaction puzzles you, causes you more concern than what you just saw.

The flames flicker out. The room is once again as dark as coal. Claes recovers from her bewilderment and shines the flashlight back at the doorway. "That's… that's not possible."

"Believe it, Gun-girl. That's why they stuffed us here - to be turned into the impossible."

_We?_

Claes echoes your thoughts. "We? How many of you are there?"

"I've only seen, like, nine of us. The names weren't in order. Like, there's Eleven and Twelve, but no Thirteen or Fourteen."

Claes took a step back, her lamp still pointed downward.

You notice that Eighteen also has no shoes. "Maybe they skipped them. Thirteen… some people think it's unlucky."

Eighteen shook her head. "No. I saw Twenty-One die on the table. I bet all the missing numbers are dead. That's why we don't have anyone with just one number as their name."

Your mind takes a second to understand her. One number… Seven, Eight, Nine… You don't remember them, you don't even feel like you forgot them. Nine others. You don't remember them, but you feel sad that they're gone. That they're dead.

"You're all that's left?" Claes raises her flashlight and points it at the doors again.

"Me? No. Others come and go. We'll meet in the hall, talk a little, then, I look away and they're gone. But not Nineteen. Nineteen and me, we stick together."

The other set of doors open. Instantly, Claes swings around. A short, red headed girl in a pale yellow sundress walks through the door. You notice she didn't use her hand to open the door. You notice you're not surprised, either. That bothers you.

"Did you say something about me?" Nineteen looks to be one or two yeas younger than you, but her voice sounds a little deeper, rougher, older.

"Hey, Nineteen. I found Sixteen, and she brought a friend, Gun-girl."

"Oh, we can try to use that on The Doctor. It might -" Her words tease you with their hope, and you realize you've not heard that touch, that tone for too long.

"No," Claes shook her head, some of her black hair sneaking free of her baseball cap. "I shot him three times in the center-of-mass, and three times in the head. He didn't stop."

Nineteen scratches her head. "Center of what?"

You're glad she asked it instead of you.

"Center of mass. Body shot. Right here." Claes pats her diaphragm. "Any of those six should have taken him down. They didn't do anything."

Nineteen pouts, a face that makes her look like she's nine. "Booger."

Claes swings the light back to Eighteen, but shining at her legs. "But what about you? Did you try to burn him?"

"No, he just gets wet, and the fire goes out."

"Gets… wet?"

The taller girl nods. "It's like the sprinklers. They stopped working a while ago, but it's like the sprinklers back when they worked. There would just be water all around him. It was like what Fifteen could do, you know, make it rain?"

"Was this before or after he … killed Fifteen?" Claes still has the light held low, but it bounces off the tiled floor and shows her face, intent in thought, eager for Eighteen's answer.

"Before, but he…" The taller girl looks at the newcomer.

"But after that, he could do it more, I think." Nineteen seems uncertain.

Her partner doesn't share that trait. "Yeah, he's definitely stronger. I used to be able to scare him off easily, but now I have to really concentrate." She points at the double doors from where you retreated. "That took a lot to do."

Claes shines her light at Nineteen's torso. "And you can move things without touching them, right?"

"How did you… yeah, like this." She flicks her fingers at the doors.

They swing open.

Claes turns to you, and you feel suddenly embarrassed. You haven't said hardly anything this whole time! She must think you're stupid!

"And you… you can do things with rocks or wind, right?"

Your self-admonition melts and bewilderment takes its place. "R-r-r-rocks? Wind? Uh, no."

"Huh? Rocks? I don't get you, Gun-girl. Why rocks and wind?"

Claes points at Eighteen, the door, and Nineteen. "Fire, Water, Aether."

All three of you join to make a babble of confused queries.

"These are the classical elements. Earth, Wind, Fire, Air, and Aether. Most people think Plato discovered them, but he was actually quoting Empedocles." She looks at your puzzled faces. "Never mind. I thought they had some sort of theme to these… these…" She takes a deep breath, then looks at you. "These paranormal powers. So, uh, Sixteen, what's your power?"

You want to shrink away again. "I … I don't know?"

Eighteen's laughter, a true and hearty one, shocks you and the other two girls. "Her? Her? She's the most powerful one of us!"

Your jaw drops. _No, she has to be joking!_

"What can she do?"

_Yeah, what can _I_ do?_

Nineteen's coarse cough silences everyone and everything, even your torrent of questions. "Sixteen? Sixteen can call the spirits of the dead."

* * *

Author's note: First version of this chapter stated Nineteen's estimated age incorrectly as "about your age." Now, it's "one or two years younger than you."


	5. Phenomenon

**_The Final Freedom_**** Chapter 5: Phenomenon**

"No, really. What can you do, Sixteen?" Claes momentarily blinds you with her flashlight. "Sorry."

You suck on your lip, then look at the double doors. The flashlight is still pointed at you, just lower. You're sure everyone can see you, including Claes. However, you're not as afraid of disappointing her after this.

"Nineteen already told you, Gun-girl-"

The pool of light sweeps over to illuminate Eighteen. "It's Claes. Not Gun-girl. Claes. There are no such thing as ghosts, so stop playing around. We need to know what she can do so we can pool your… your… your powers to do something about that thing out there."

You can't see Claes, but her voice is missing that reserve, that assurance. You don't miss it. You're not afraid to say it. "I don't know, Claes. I really don't-"

"They must have zapped you good last time, didn't they?" In the light, you see her look you over. "They used to make you do it. They'd make the collar-"

"Collar? What do you …"

The remainder of Claes' question is drowned out by the onrush of memories. Not just images, but sounds, smells. Sensation! You remember the searing agony as they worked on you while lashed to that table. You remember the dull, persistent aches at the incision sites keeping you awake. The fever, the nausea when an experiment had an "unfavourable reaction".

Most of all, you remember the collar, the white hot pain at the sides of your neck. For resisting them. For talking in the cages. For trying to use your abilities when you weren't supposed to, or for not using them when they demanded. For … everything.

"They… the collars hurt us if we didn't do what they say. Uh, said. They only turned the collar off when they made us use our powers. But mine, it didn't hurt if I used a little bit of my power, even back in my… my dorm." The underlying evil such that would call those cells "dormitories" angers you.

"If I could have done that, I would have…" A little ball of fire no bigger than a fingertip appears in Eighteen's palm.

"They would have just zapped you when they saw that. Now this, this might have gotten us out earlier." Nineteen points her finger at a closet. The handle wiggles, but doesn't turn. "Locked, right?" Her lip twitches to the right as her hand wavers in the air. The door opens. "Ta-dah!"

"Show off." The tiny fireball flickers out.

Nineteen blows a kiss at her friend. "Just because you don't got it don't mean-"

"Uh, guys? How gently can you close that door, Nineteen?" Claes' voice is softer, breathier than you've ever heard.

A chill shoots through you; the circle of light around the open closet is minutely shaking.

"Why?" The other girls ask in unison.

"See that aluminum container? See the label? It says Sairn."

"What's that?"

"It's a nerve agent. If you don't get treated with atropine or pralidoxime within… It's a poison gas. A very nasty one."

"Will that kill Doc Ugly?"

"A canister that size? It will kill all of us, probably thousands of times over. Can we close the door? Gently? And lock it? Please?"

The door closes.

Ξ§§§Ξ

At Claes' suggestion, all of you retreat into the first hallway, the one from which you initially entered the operating room. Upon a fire cabinet, Claes suddenly stopped, her left hand upraised at the elbow, hand closed. The three of you step out of way as she opens it and retrieves the fire ax. "This might work."

"Yeah! Taking off his head like they do in the movies! That'll do it!" Eighteen slaps her fist.

"No, no." Claes shakes her head with her eyes shut. "Eighteen, do you remember how you got here? How you first ended up here?"

"Uh, no. First thing I remember was being on the table."

"Nineteen? Sixteen, you already told me you didn't. Well, I fell through a trap door."

"Yes, you said you fell down two or three stories." Your eyes meet Claes'.

"Right, but it wasn't a single fall. I fell onto a metal ramp. It went this way." With her index finger, she makes a downward slash to her right. "Then, I landed on another one, and it went that way." She swiped her finger downward the other way. "There were six or seven of them. It's rather ingenious. It disorients most people, but doesn't hurt them too badly. It blocks light from entering, and sound from escaping."

Nineteen's cough interrupted Claes' thoughts. "Right, but what does this have to do with the ax?"

"Well, I can jump pretty high, so I could reach the lowest ramp, but I couldn't keep from slipping off it when I tried to climb back up. With the spike end of that…"

"We could get out of here!" "Yeah!" "Finally!"

You hear a crashing sound in the operating theater.

"Run!" Claes points the gun at the double doors.

As you run for the stairwell, you hear Eighteen arguing with her. "You said you already tried shooting him, right?"

"Yes, but maybe if I-"

"We know fire will stop him. Get going!"

You hold the stairwell door open. Claes runs by, ax in hand. As she mounts the stairs, the remainder of you are left in darkness.

Eighteen cups a fireball, a small one. Its glow reassures you as she backs up to the door.

As she is about to enter, she's thrown to one side.

Her hand grips the doorframe.

Sizzling noises fill the air as her flames and his liquid sheen mix.

She screams in pain.

You grab her wrist.

You pull, but to no avail.

Nineteen grabs you and pulls.

Eighteen gasps.

Her fingers slip from the frame.

You tighten your grip on her wrist.

Within your grasp, you feel it shrinking.

"Help me… Please, help me. Don't let him-"

Tears fill your eyes.

Eighteen's arm is but skin over bone.

Nineteen tightens her arms wrapped around your belly.

She pulls.

You pull harder.

Eighteen's wrist tears from her arm.

You both fall back into the stairwell.

The door closes.

In the darkness, you grope for your bearings.

You find Nineteen leaning against the door.

"Is he coming?" you ask.

"One second, almost … there!"

The door handle rattles, and you heart freezes. It rattles again, but doesn't move. You lean against the door, but feel nothing fighting against it.

You hear the sound of a deep breath being exhaled. "Okay, we're safe now."

"Are you sure?"

"I jammed the door handle from the inside. I've picked locks open before, but this is the first time I had to keep one from working."

On your hands and knees you start patting the floor. "I found the stairs," you say.

"Okay, I'm right behind you."

You feel a hand land on your heel, then feel it lift.

"Don't worry, that's just me."

As you climb the stairs on all fours, the adrenaline relaxes its grasp on your nerves. By the time you reach the landing between floors, you are shaking. Patting the walls, you find the corner. You collapse into it and draw your knees to your chest.

"Sixteen? Are you all right?"

Between gasps, you try to speak. Sobs emerge instead.

You feel arms pat you, wrap around you. Nineteen's head gently weighs upon your shoulder.

"Don't cry. Don't cry."

You try not to, but the tears still well.

"Do you want to hear my favourite memory of Eighteen? Would that help?"

You nod, your hair brushing against her curly locks.

"I was in the room back there. They just finished testing me, and they told me to go back into the cage. I think they zapped me for no reason, too. Anyhow, I'm locked up. They let Eighteen out of the cage and switched her collar off. Eleven threw up in her cage while they were testing Eighteen. The Doctor told the soldiers to take her out and wash her."

You nod, memories of the hose, the spray of cold water mixed with the merciless laughter making you shiver.

"So it was just the three of us: me, The Doctor and Eighteen. No soldiers, no guns pointed at us. Do you know what Eighteen did? She did that fireball thing, but it was brighter than even Claes' light. That's pretty bright, right? I mean, I almost couldn't look at it. There was this pop, then it went out. When I could see straight again, Eighteen had her collar in her hand. The ends still smoking. She had a fireball in her other hand, and she was smiling."

That image makes you try to smile, but your cheeks ache too much. "That's a good memory."

A door opens.

Panicking, you stand up immediately and crouch, tensed and ready.

The flashlight blinds you.

"I know I said the next time you fell be-Oh my god!"

You look around frantically.

Nineteen is standing three steps away from you, her hand outstretched, finger pointed at your torso.

You look down.

Next to your hip, your hand is cupping a fireball.


	6. Persistence

**_The Final Freedom_**** Chapter 6: Persistence**

You stare at the fireball, unbelieving. You close your fist, you marvel at how it glows, yet does not hurt. A tiny exhalation, and it winks out.

Nineteen's voice is almost hoarse, so low and soft she speaks. "No way. You ... Eighteen ... But-but-but-" She gives up trying to voice her thoughts and throws her arms around you. Leaning on you, she rocks side to side.

A pointed stage-cough interrupts the reunion. Claes waves the flashlight on and off your face, causing it to strobe. "Look, I know there's a lot to try to understand, but we can do that after we get out of here. Where's Eighteen?"

You look up at Claes. "She's dead. The Doctor got her."

"No, _she isn't!_ She's right here!" Nineteen gives your hand a squeeze.

"What? Never mind. We don't have time. Do we have to wait for her?"

You and Nineteen shakes your heads in unison.

"No? Okay, then. Come on." She turns and starts up the stairs again.

As you exit the stairwell, Claes picks up the fire ax she left leaning against the doorframe. She studies the wall for a quick bit, then turns to the right. "This way."

"Uh, okay." You follow, Nineteen in tow.

In the dark, the hallways seem all alike. A right, a left, another right. You are glad Claes knows where she's going.

Just then, she stops and sighs. "Someone's messed up my marks."

"What?" "Huh?"

"I left marks when I was up here. These are leading me in circles. Someone's playing games."

You sigh. "Must be Doc Ugly."

Claes turns at you, eyebrow slightly raised. She opens her mouth to speak, then merely inhales. "Well, we do this the hard way. Trial and error."

After two or three turns, you hear a crunch behind you. You turn and extend your hand. A fiery blob streaks down the hall, to be met with a crackling hiss and a growl.

The flashlight is turned that direction, and you see The Doctor approaching again. His clothing is soaked. Muscle memory, but not your own, guides your motions. You slap the wall, and a river of fire streaks from that point outward toward the approaching man-monster. Just in front of him, the flames leap up.

You gasp. Not at the result of your action, but simply because doing it felt like it stole the air from your lungs. You pant, you suck air in greedily, as if you were holding your breath for the limit of your ability.

"No…" Claes gasps.

Following her eyes, you look down the hall, expecting to see a deadly wall keeping you safe. Instead, it is a glowing, dancing backdrop against which is silhouetted the deformed near-human form, one still lumbering toward you.

Again, three blasts buffet your ears. Again, three flashes dazzle you.

The Doctor lurches to one side, his head suddenly bowing.

Claes fires again, another three-shot burst.

Instead of crumpling further, The Doctor straightens, then arches his back until his head faces the ceiling. He groans, and relaxes his back, coming back to an upright stance. As he does, his cry grows louder, fiercer. He crouches.

You can see a flap of flesh hanging off the right side of his skull. Where he once had two glowing orbs, only the left one remains.

At the height of his scream, when you think he can cry no louder, it turns into a shriek and he launches himself at you.

Beside you, Claes screams, "Die! Die!" as she dry-fires her pistol repeatedly.

You throw your hand forward, and an incandescent ball flies forth.

It splashes against The Doctor amid an angry sizzling and a burst of steam.

The Doctor fills your view. His arms are outstretched, his jacket billowing like leathery wings.

Nineteen screams.

Just as he is about to rip into you, an invisible blow collapses his clothing against him.

You see his hollowed torso, each rib in stark relief.

This unseen force continues, and he is lifted off his feet. He is thrown back, landing with a sickly cracking sound.

You take a step forward, a timid one. _Could he be…?_

Nineteen grabs your elbow. "We need to go. He'll get up soon."

As if in response to her words, The Doctor's supine form contorts. His joints seem to dislocate. That sickening snap is repeated over and again.

You back up, bumping into Nineteen. This galvanizes her to move. The three of you break your eyes free of the sight of The Doctor seemingly rearranging its body.

Claes' bobbing flashlight guides you and your compatriot. You turn a corner, then a second. After two more, you aren't sure if you are moving away from The Doctor or not. "Wait!"

She whirls about and blinds you with her light. "What for?!"

"Do you know where you're going?"

Claes falls silent. The light points at her feet.

Nineteen offers a hug. "It's all right, I'm lost, too."

Claes mumbles something. The sound is inaudible. Only the shadow of her lips barely moving lets you know she spoke.

"Gun-girl? What did you say?" You step forward and join in the group embrace.

Claes is so tense her body feels as if it was cast metal. "No. I don't." Her voice is soft, devoid of the confidence that once strengthened you. "I don't know. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know how you do … whatever it is you do with fire. And you, with that … push. I don't know how he, no, how _it_, how _it_ is still alive. I don't know. I just don't know."

Nineteen nods. "I don't know, either. Does that help? All I know is I do _this_." She extends her arm. "I think _that_. And then, it happens." She shrugs.

"I didn't see anything, Nineteen."

"That's because I didn't do anything." She giggles. It's throaty and husky, but the waves of merriment seize you all. You all dissolve into laughter. The barest of escapes you just survived wound you tight. This gives you release you didn't realize you ached for.

As the guffaws die away, Claes' eyes regain her steely focus. "You know what? Nineteen, when you hit The Doctor with your … your power, it was a solid body blow, right? That force, that push, it doesn't stop until it hits him, right?"

"Yeah. Why?"

She turns to you. "And your fireball. It doesn't hurt him because he has—"

"A wall of water!" A rush of hope seizes you. Turning to Nineteen, you smile and say, "See? I promised you we'd get out of here!"

She wraps her arms around you, smiling. "I never doubted you!"

You smile back at her, elated. You look toward Claes, expecting the same joy on her face.

She's looking at you with a puzzled expression, not one of happiness.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Claes takes a slow breath, then speaks carefully, measuring her words. "You and Nineteen are pretty good friends, right?"

Now, it's your turn to be puzzled. "Yeah. Why are you asking?"

"I was just … remembering. You know, when you and I first met." Her words, taken at face value, are normal, if a little oddly timed. Her speech cadence was anything but.

"Of course, you were shooting at Doc Ugly. It wasn't doing jack, so I had to save you. Right?"

She nods. Again, it's slow, contemplative. It's unnerving. "Do you remember who was with me?"

"Yeah, Sixteen. Why?"

Nineteen gives a nervous titter. "Uh, don't you want to try our one-two punch on The Doctor?"

You're torn between being annoyed at being interrupted, and trying to understand why Claes is asking so many strange questions. You opt for the latter. "Hey, Gun-girl? Why are you acting so funny?"

Nineteen grabs your hand and pulls. "I _really_ think we should start trying to find The Doctor. Come on."

You shake your hand free of hers. "What is _with_ you?" You turn toward Claes. "And you, too. What's with all these crazy questions?"

Nineteen fumbles for your hand again. "I just... just… just don't like the way this conversation is going, that's all."

You extricate your hand. "Me, neither. But I'm not the one asking all these strange questions. You were there, Gun-girl. Why are you asking this stuff?"

"What's your name?"

You blink. "What? Why are you asking me _that?_"

"What's your name?"

"She's Eighteen, of course!" Nineteen steps between you and Claes. "Come on. Let's go!"

"Yeah, I'm…" You pause. "I'm…" Thoughts, images, memories, and identities clamor in your mind. "I'm… I'm Sixteen."

Nineteen sinks to her knees and sobs.


	7. Pursuit

**_The Final Freedom_**** Chapter 7: Pursuit**

You inhale, steel yourself, and tense your neck in preparation. Then, as you exhale, you relax your all – your neck, your mind, your very concept of identity. As the you that you identify as Sixteen yields, panic rises as another mindset, another essence seeps into your awareness. Eighteen wins the ensuing tug-of-war.

You brush Nineteen's shoulder-length red hair free from where tears plastered it to her cheek.

She shies away from you.

"Hey, kiddo. Don't cry, okay? I'm right here." You watch as your hand gently cups Nineteen's chin and raises her gaze. "I'm still me, and I'm still here."

"Yea-yea-yeah?" Her mouth is quivering. Her response isn't an affirmative, it's a question. A challenge.

"Yeah, squirt. Here, I'll prove it to you." You draw closer, closer. Your noses touch, and you nuzzle her, forcing a smile.

Her eyes narrow, but from below, from her cheeks matching your smile.

You draw even closer. The feel of her lips on yours surprises you. As you draw away, you say, "There, believe me now?"

Nineteen nods. Her hand brushes at her tears.

"Okay, kiddo. I'm going to have to sit back a bit now. We're kinda freaking Gun-girl out."

"I'm fine." Claes makes a show of brushing some speck of dirt off her pants. "If Nineteen's up to it, we need to get moving again. The only question is, do we head back, or keep running?"

You will a small lick of flame to come to being. "We stop running."

Nineteen touches your shoulder.

"Don't worry, Nineteen. I know Eighteen wants to fight, too."

She gives your shoulder a firm and warm squeeze. "Uh-huh!"

You retrace your steps, and eventually find yourself at the door to a stairwell. "That's amazing, Claes. You got us back. I was utterly lost."

"Don't be so sure. When I was trying to explore this floor, I found a few stairwells. We can't be-"

A sudden snap distantly in the hallway causes the three of you to pivot as one. A ball of fire traces a perfect line down the hallway. Beside you, Nineteen crouches, arms primed in front of her. Claes' flashlight illuminates the hallway.

Nothing.

Nineteen gives a slight, quiet giggle. You all exhale, relax.

Claes sweeps the flashlight from its current direction toward the back, showing the other way also empty. "This isn't a very defensible spot."

"De-what-able?"

"He can sneak up on us."

"Oh! But, what can we do about it…" Nineteen gives you a smile, "Gun-girl?"

Claes sighs. "Please, call me Claes. And, to answer your question, the cells are dead ends. We can back up to the cell bars-"

A tightness shrinks your belly. "I don't want to! I don't want to!"

Nineteen squeezes your hand. "She didn't say we were going to go into the cell."

"Correct. That might limit our mobility. We'll back up to the cell bars, so we know he can't sneak up on us from behind. They're set back from the hallway a bit, so we'll be protected from flanking… so he can't surprise us from the sides either."

You both follow, hand-in-hand, as she leads the way.

"Oh, I should warn you, this cell has a body in it."

Nineteen's hand tenses in yours. "I'll be fi-fine."

"I'm here, kiddo. You'll be fine." You pat her with your free hand.

"Eighteen?"

"Both of us. She's here, too. We're both here. We won't leave you."

Claes stops. Her light clearly illuminates the bars, but she's pointing it higher than usual so the floor isn't lit. "It's up to you. Some people fear the unknown more than they fear something they know is bad. That thing may be bad, but not knowing is worse. Others are not as afraid of the unknown. They're rare, but seeing as we are all statistical anomalies, it's up to you."

"What?"

"Do you want to see the body or not?"

You whisper into Nineteen's ear, "I've seen it already. It's not that bad."

She tenses. "Yeah. Let's see it."

Claes lowers the light.

In your mind, the consciousness that is Eighteen becomes an explosion of anguish and sorrow.

Nineteen gasps, then chants "No-no-no-no-" for as long as she has breath. Her hand becomes a vise. Her fingernails drive into you.

Claes sweeps the flashlight back at you both. "What's the ma-" The question dies in her mouth, and her eyes grow wide as they bore into Nineteen.

You are seized with the same question. As you take a breath, as you ready yourself to ask, Claes sweeps the flashlight back to the body, holds it there for a pause, then back to Nineteen. She shines it at Nineteen for a breath's time, then back to the body.

Twice she makes this cycle, as if she's doubling-checking an impossible…

The dress.

The unfortunate corpse in the cell is wearing the same dress as Nineteen.

_But, that's no reason to…_

Red hair.

_They both have red hair._

"Nineteen? It's just a coincidence." _It has to be!_

She lets go of you. Her shaking hands come up to her chin, fingers loosely cupped. "No. I remember this… I remember this cell. It's not a coincidence. It's not a coincidence, Eighteen."

You hug her. "You're here. You're here, ki- You're here, Nineteen. Listen to me. You're alive!"

She presses her head against you. "No, Sixteen. That's me. I'm dead."

You squeeze her all the harder. "No! You're not! You can't be! I need you! Who's going to … going to…"

"Just take me in like you did with Eighteen. Just like that. Besides," she chokes back a sob. "Besides, that means I'll be together with her again."

You nod, your cheek resting atop her scalp. Within your arms, beneath your head, Nineteen seems to yield, to become less present. Your arms start to move through her, at first with stiff resistance, but easing over the span of a few breaths. You raise your head and look at her.

She is glowing. A soft yellow light seems to come from her skin, but as she grows more and more translucent, the light's source is revealed to be deeper and deeper within.

By the time your arms pass freely through the space where once she stood, a faint glowing yellow mist is all that remains, save one bright and pulsing pinpoint of light.

It blinks, and with each flash, it grows dimmer.

With one final weak glimmer, it winks out.

You look at Claes. She is no longer staring, no longer gape-mouthed. Instead, she has her hand together in front of her, right hand still holding the pistol, left hand atop it. The boxy stock attached to the pistol is pressed between her right arm and body. Her head is slightly bowed. She does not speak. Her reverence is palpable.

You sniff back one final sob, brush your eyes free of tears. "So we wait here?"

"We wait here." She lowers herself to one knee and shoulders the pistol. She ejects the magazine, feels it, then slides it into some holster on her belt. Another one is in her hand as she feeds it into the pistol's handle.

The resulting _click_ is one of determined confidence.

During the wait, you fight for your sense of identity, of control over who you think, no, who you _know_ yourself to be. Eighteen and Nineteen fill your chest with a joyous warmth, though it has some bitterness at the fringes. An electric excitement invigorates you. Be it from your own anticipation or the other two, you are _ready_.

As Claes rises, then lowers herself on to her other knee, you hear a faint growl.

"Hey! Over here!"

You shoot her a glare. "What are you doing?"

"We have a plan, right?"

You blink. "Yeah. But, why…"

"If we aren't going anywhere, why should we wait for him to find us?"

You nod. "Doc Ugly! We're right here!"

With both of you calling, he finds you in short order. His form is no longer human. Its lower torso seems reversed, with its legs and feet pointed in opposition to its approach. Its legs are bent at the knees, and the way it walks is more like a chicken. Its head protrudes from its chest, and its arms stem from the front of its belly.

You rally the voices within, and your thoughts coalesce into a single tempo. You extend your arms in front of you, palms facing forward.

Both of you inhale.

"Now!" you shout. Fire projects from your right hand. Your left trembles as a force unseen departs.

The fireball hits first. It sizzles away.

The projected force strikes it, slows it, but doesn't stop it.

"Again! Hit it again!" Claes fires another three-round burst.

In spite of the rush, the fear, the thrill, you know her shots will do nothing. Your lungs are emptied after the last salvo, so you hurriedly gulp air, then ready another one.

"Die!"

This time, they hit together, but not in the same spot.

Claes fires again. "This isn't working!"

You are completely out of breath. Your lungs ache. You see blobs of false colors. Between swallows of air, you manage to say, "Do you… do you have… any better… ideas?"

She wraps her free arm around you and lifts you without any exertion. She stands and places one foot against the cell bars behind you. "Yes. Running."

She kicks against the bars, and you are both propelled over the mass that was once The Doctor.

It screams, a sound both a screech and a roar at once. It rears up, and almost snares you with its claw-like hand.

You land, Claes wrapping herself around you and rolling to protect you. In a smooth motion, she emerges from the roll, you still wrapped by her left arm, and starts running down the hall.

You are facing behind her. You have no idea where you are going. With the flashlight pointing away from you, you can only guess what is behind you. Growling and braying.

And they sound louder each time.


	8. Phantasm

**_The Final Freedom_**** Chapter 8: Phantasm**

Right turn, right turn, left turn, right turn. Each time Claes turns, the pursuer's calls seem to die down. However, after it rounds the last corner, you realize it is still in close proximity. Moreover, Claes seems to be pausing at each T-intersection off the main hallways. She will round the corner, stop for a heartbeat, then turn around and keep running along the main passage.

It's making you motion sick.

Just as you're about to ask her why she's wasting time like this, she stops and gently lowers you. "Okay, this is it."

"What do you mean?"

"This is where we wait for it." Gracefully, she lowers herself to one knee and points the pistol down the short hallway.

You back up and reach for what you know is there. Bars. You're backed up against another cell. "But we will just have to run away again."

"No, I have an idea. Two really, but let's go one at a time. You're having a hard time getting your fireball and forceball to hit at the same time, right?"

You nod, though in darkness, there's no way Claes could see you with her flashlight pointed down the hall and you standing behind her.

Still, she continues. "Have you tried launching just one?"

"One at a time?"

"No, just one. Can you mix the two together?"

"Uh, I don't know." You flex your fingers.

"You won't until you try." The Doctor's cry seems just around the corner.

"O-okay." You relax your mind. You don't completely yield control, but you pry free the tensed tendons formed by fear of losing your sense of self. You breathe deeply and feel the odd sensation of your body moving without your conscious volition.

Your right hand forms a fist.

Your right arm hauls itself back, touching your curled little finger against your hit.

Your fist flies forward, a half turn as your arm extends.

As you do so, you step forward with your right foot and turn your torso to your left.

A blob of flame bursts from your fist and hurls down the short hallway. It strikes the far wall, the very center of the pool of light.

And, you hear the sound of stone-on-stone.

"YES!"

"Do you think you can do it again?"

"Give… give me a… second." Your lungs are hollow, but not as bad as before. Still, you hyperventilate a few breaths, then straighten and…

Whoosh. Crack!

Again, center of the circle of light, and again, that welcomed sound. You also begin to notice the sensation of pushing, of hurling something as you do it.

"Are you ready?" Claes' voice has that self-confidence, that resolve back.

"Yeah. Are you?" You smile.

Instead of an answer, she shouts, "Hey! Is there a doctor in the house?!"

Nothing.

Full of nervous energy, you span your fingers from one bar to the next. The stretching motion, the repetition of crawling from one vertical bar to the next, it gives you some release of that bubbling anticipation.

One bar, another bar, another… One of the bars is not circular. It's a thin slab. _Oh, the door_. You span it, onto the mating strip of metal. The next bar is not in line with the others.

The door is open.

The subtle genius of Claes choosing this particular cell settles on you. _If this doesn't work, we can lock ourselves in._ Not the best of ideas, but you both will be safe while you practice and experiment.

You are about to thank her for her foresight when a howl pierces your soul.

"Get set." Her voice is now cold, flat, and utterly monotone.

A keening cry fills the hallway as The Doctor rounds the corner.

_But it is walking along the wall._

Claes fires three futile shots at it.

You take a deep breath.

It closes. Closer… Closer…

"NOW!" Claes fires again.

You launch.

It falls off the wall and bounces back a stride's length.

What remains of its clothing burns.

It shrieks, then growls.

With that rumbling, a discouraging hiss fills the hallway. You see the fire flicker out.

It rises. It is a single slug of flesh with its head and limbs seemingly randomly attached. In fact, the points where arms join the body seem to move along the body.

Its mouth opens. A cacophony batters your ears. You hear roars, you hear howls. You hear screams, and you hear … laughter?

Yes, a screeching, cackling laughter threads itself through the other cries.

It lurches forward.

Rage presses your temple. Fury narrows your eyes. Indescribable hatred, thrice as strong as any single person can contain, that anger courses from your heart to your arms.

They fly forward.

From them, twin stars shoot forward. They are not flaming, they are simply blindingly white. They streak towards The Doctor, wrapped in invisible spheres of barely-contained kinetic force.

It is knocked against the far wall. The balls make craters into its fleshy mass. It arches, it thrashes. Its hands tear into itself, trying to extricate the incendiary pseudo-matter that scorches it from within. Most of all, it screams.

No more does it howl, no more does it growl. No more does it roar, and no more does it laugh.

It only screams. A multitude of voices, they scream.

One by one, that multitude dies down.

In the end, only one voice is screaming, and it is human.

It is human, and now it is whimpering.

It is now but an almost-inaudible whine.

It is silent.

"YES!" You leap, you clap, you pump your fist in the air. "We did it!"

"Yes. Yes, we did." Claes' voice is no warmer than before. Her light does not waver. She has not risen from the one-kneed firing stance.

"Uh, Claes? Where's your ax?" You struggle to remember where you last saw it. Actually, you struggle to not be unnerved by her inaction.

"I'll get another one from the medical floor after this."

"So, uh, what are you waiting for?"

"For it to move again."

"Oh, like in the movies. We walk past it, and it gets up, right?"

"Something like that."

You make a negligent pushing motion with your left hand and the mass of charred meat, of reddened boils, of torn flesh is pressed against the far wall. "Problem solved."

She still isn't moving.

"Uh, Claes?"

"I'm still waiting."

"If it's going to move, wouldn't it be better if we were, like somewhere else?"

"No, this is where we need to be."

"Huh?"

"This is where it ends. This is where the circle closes."

The steely resolve in her voice is no longer a source of comfort. "Uh, Claes? You're scaring me. You're scaring _us."_

"Think of it this way. When it moves, do you want it to be where you can see it, where you have it controlled, or somewhere unknown?"

"How do you know it's going to move?"

"Because it will."

You blink. "That's stupid."

"Yes. This whole situation is stupid, if by stupid you mean unexplainable. It defies the laws of science, but it is starting to make sense in its own way. Self-consistency, if you will."

"What?"

"Just give me a minute or two. If it doesn't move by then, we'll go get another ax."

"The hell with that. You wait. I'm-"

"You're the person that needs to see it move."

"You're not making any sense."

"Just give me a minute. I'll explain afterward."

"Okay." You let it drop. It lands and breaks another bone. Another wet, organic crack sickens you.

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three…

You hear another snapping of bone.

_What?!_

And another. It stirs.

You lash out with your hand and stamp it against the wall. It squeals and struggles. You start to press. "Okay, it moved. Now what?"

Claes turns to you, and with that motion, the flashlight sweeps away from the pinned mass of inhuman flesh. Your eyes follow it. Stopping, it points at your chest. "I want you to get ready to let go."

"Let go of _that?!"_

"Let go of that, and of Eighteen and Nineteen. And, most importantly, let yourself go."

"What?!"

"I'm going to show you something, and I want you to see it with the understanding that it means you can let go."

"No way am I letting that thing go!"

She's already turning past you.

You follow the light as it leaves your torso.

It illuminates the cell door. The lock is destroyed. _We couldn't have hidden in there anyhow. Why did she-_

The flashlight illuminates the center of the cell. Like Nineteen's cell, at the very center is a corpse. Unlike Nineteen, this one is supine. Desiccated skin surround empty eye sockets. Limp, ratty hair is fanned out around her head. Her hands are emaciated, and she barely fills out the white summer dress, the same one you are wearing.

"Oh."

The mass of burnt flesh drops. It does not move.

You look at your hands.

They are glowing yellow.

Claes is now visible in your innate light. She nods. "You can let go now. You were the one keeping them here."

She is wearing a tailored-down military jacket, wool-lined. Her feet are shod in heavy boots, winter boots. You look at the flimsy dress you wear, and realize that much time has passed.

You blink away tears as the shattered memories rearrange themselves. You see it all now, both your life and this afterlife. Worse, you now remember the many times this tableau between you, the Doctor, Eighteen and Nineteen have been played and replayed.

_Spirits of the dead. She can call the spirits of the dead_. Nineteen's words, said in her raspy voice, reverberate in your mind. _I was the one keeping them here. Keeping _us_ here_.

You look at Claes.

She gives you a wan smile, and points at The Doctor.

It too is glowing yellow. It too is becoming transparent.

You look at your hands. You hold them up and look through them at Claes. "I'm glad I met you, Claes. Thank you. Thank you for setting us free."

Her voice is distant, soft. "I'm glad I met you too, Sixt…"

The End


	9. Epilogue

**_The Final Freedom's_**** Epilogue**

"Where's Claes now, Captain?"

Raballo studied his walking stick. "Why, Director?"

"Well, I don't want her telling the others about this little misadventure." He stared at Captain Raballo over the tops of his rimless glasses.

"She won't talk. She knows better." Raballo knew that. He trained her to be mindful of operational security at all times, even with the other cyborgs on Agency grounds.

"I'm afraid that's not good enough."

Raballo slowly tenses up. "Not acceptable. You can't pretend she's a videotape and erase her when it's convenient."

"This isn't my decision. The Ministry originally wanted her terminated."

The shock of the statement melted Raballo's tension and replaced it with a cold dread. "Why?" His mouth was dry, his voice soft.

"Think about it. Did you ever hear of Project Icarus before?"

"No, but I've been out of-"

Director Lorenzo shook his head, slowly and sadly. "It was during your time. And, I've never heard of it either. You can believe me or you can call me a liar, but think about it: what was your security clearance?"

Reluctantly, Raballo nodded once.

"If you and I didn't hear a trace of Icarus, then it's something someone very high wants to keep very secret." The Director pushed his glasses up. "Those people will go to extremes to keep their secrets."

"So my choices are to have her memories be erased, or …"

"I'm afraid those are your choices, Captain. I've spoken with Doctor Bianchi. He is sure we can target just the most recent memories, at most a week's worth."

Raballo thought back to the large fish they caught, the smile on her face. _She smiles so rarely._ He remembered her recent progress using her Heckler & Koch VP70 machine pistol.

_Better to lose a week than to lose all of her._

"No more than a week's worth, do you hear me?" Not bothering to wait for an answer, he lurched to his feet, and stomped out the Director's office, the metal tip of his cane clicking in time with his injured leg.

Ξ§§§Ξ

"So, Claes. What do you remember?" Raballo was aware the hospital room was almost certainly bugged.

"I … I don't remember getting shot. Did the target get away?" She blinked, and worry lined her forehead.

"No. You did fine. Doctor Bianchi said that with a head injury like that, trauma may cause you to block out the actual event."

She closed her eyes and tried to remember the shooting, but all she could remember was chasing after the enemy agent.

And falling…

She opened her eyes and shook her head. "No, I can't remember anything about it."

"That's nature's way of protecting you, or so I've read."

"Uh-huh." Claes dabbed at an unexpected tear.

Raballo tensed. _I hope there's not a camera in here, too._ "Uh, Claes? Is your eye all right?"

She forced a smile. "I'm fine. I just had a sad dream, that's all."


End file.
